


The Holy Game of Pool

by cordelia_gray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: salt_burn_porn, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, pool-playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordelia_gray/pseuds/cordelia_gray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding the sight of your big brother playing pool almost unbearable erotic was pretty fucked up, even by Winchester standards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holy Game of Pool

**Author's Note:**

> for [](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/profile)[**salt_burn_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/), prompt from [](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/profile)[**de_nugis**](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/), "transferable skills".

Years ago, one time when he was alone (the bus to Stanford, maybe, or one of those brutal Christmas holidays at school, before Jess) Sam had read Foucault’s Pendulum. It was a strange book, and at the time Sam had been unreasonably furious with the protagonists, these men who were so bored they had to invent conspiracies in order to make their lives more interesting. _Serves them right,_ he’d thought at the ending, _poking around in the occult like that, like it’s some sort of game. Overeducated morons._ The irony did not escape him.

He feels a little more sympathy for those beset by bewildering conspiracies now.

Still, there were a few things that really stuck with him from the book. Mainly, a passage in which one of the characters describes watching a woman he’s infatuated with play pinball. He talks about the way she uses the barest, infinitesimal pelvic thrusts against the machine to keep the ball in play, without going over into Tilt. _She uses a sublimated erotic fury to cause the ball to move against nature, against gravity, against the laws of dynamics._

Reading that passage, Sam had been so forcibly reminded of Dean that it was like a kick to the chest. He couldn’t breathe for a moment. The urge to just get up and go, hotwire a car and drive until he found his brother was almost overpowering. But he didn’t. After all, that was one of the reasons he was there in the first place. Finding the sight of your big brother playing pool almost unbearable erotic was pretty fucked up, even by Winchester standards.

All these years later, Sam is still captivated by watching Dean play.

The thing about Dean playing pool, or cleaning guns, or sparring, or any other physical activity he found important, was the quality of his attention. When he’s serious about a game, he drops the swagger. He becomes focused, intent, unselfconscious; his hands moving the cue like they were made for it, the balls seeming to line up to throw themselves into the pockets for him. He stalks the table like it’s his prey, his shoulders, ass and legs in perfect alignment. There’s something almost feline about his movements, a surety and grace that draws the eye as much as the quiet, steady snick of wood on resin.

Sam had always wondered what it would feel like to have that kind of attention focused on him, if the grace and confidence would transfer from pool to sex.

Tonight is particularly good: he’s not playing for money, for once. They don’t really need money at the moment, which is a rare state of affairs. Their last hunt had been a job that Bobby had found for them, a real estate agent in Connecticut who had been unable to sell a multimillion dollar property because it was haunted. They’d cleansed the spirits from the place, and she had paid them a percentage of the commission she expected to make on the final sale, and given them a coupon for a weekend stay in a nice hotel in Hartford.

So there they were, money in their pockets and a bed for the night, nowhere to go and nothing to do, just time to get laundry done and sleep on crisp white sheets and let their bruises heal up. It was nice. It was amazing, really, but it left Sam feeling uneasy, unsettled, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Nice” wasn’t really a frequently used word in their vocabulary.

Dean was playing straight pool tonight, something he didn’t get to do much. Hustlers play nine-ball, casual bar games are mostly eight-ball. Straight pool is old-fashioned, not flashy enough for TV. There’s no luck in it, though; it’s a game of pure skill, and Dean excels at it. He’d found someone to play with; a straight-backed, white-haired man who looked old enough to have learned pool back when straight was the only game in town, when The Hustler was the only pool movie and everyone wanted to be Paul Newman.

Old Dude is tan and relaxed, though, handsome. Sam thinks he must’ve been a real looker back in the day, and he still retains a certain charm. He’s not immune to Dean’s charms, either: Sam catches him sneaking the odd look at Dean’s ass, though the looks are more admiring than covetous, and Sam can’t really blame the guy. Dean’s ass is pretty epic in those jeans, after all, particularly when he leans over the edge of the pool table to make a tricky shot.

Sam grins. He’ll never be the pool player his brother is, something about spending his wasted youth in libraries instead of dive bars, but he can hustle with the best of them. And Dean’s not the only one with transferable skills.

Sam waits until Dean’s attention is firmly focused on the table and his opponent. He closes the laptop and slides it into his bag, takes off his over-shirt and puts in with the laptop. He’s wearing an old, faded, slightly-too-small t-shirt underneath, with jeans and sneakers, and he takes a moment to ensure that the jeans hang low and the shirt rides up, runs a hand through his hair to tousle it.

He saunters over to the pool table and sets the laptop bag down where he can keep an eye on it. “You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?” he says to Dean, who’s lining up a shot.

“Not bad,” Dean says, and then “Five-ball, side pocket,” and a soft grunt as he makes the shot. He gives Sam a curious glance, but no more. They’ve worked enough hunts and enough hustles together that Sam knows Dean will follow his lead, at least for a little while.

“Can I have the next game? I could use some pointers.” This gets him a direct, questioning look. “Cause I got this big brother thinks he’s some kind of hot-shot player, he’s always kicking my ass. Thought maybe you could give me a few lessons.” Sam leans back against the table. Dean really looks at him this time, up and down, gaze catching and stuttering at the strip of skin at Sam’s waist. “This big brother know you’re out here all on your own?”

Sam grins. “I can look after myself,” he says easily. “Name’s Jason, by the way.”

“Well, _Jason,_ I’m Dave. Why don’t you buy me a beer, and you can have the next game – that all right with you?” Dean nods to Old Dude, who looks at Sam, and at the way Dean’s looking at Sam, and makes a ‘cheers’ gesture with his whiskey glass, giving Sam a wink when Dean turns away. Sam looks down, a little embarrassed, and orders a couple of beers from a passing waitress.

They’re playing to 100, and Dean is leading easily. Sam leans against the wall, watching. The beer comes, and he takes a swig, working it as hard as he can – head tipped back, lips glistening, throat bobbing as he swallows – and is gratified when Dean misses the shot, cursing a little under his breath.

Dean still wins, though, and Old Dude settles down in a booth nearby to watch the show. Once again, Sam can’t blame him.

Dean racks the balls and hands the cue to Sam, saying “Let’s see how you do, kid”.

Sam breaks and fouls, grimacing. “Sorry!” he says. “Guess I’m a little nervous.” Sam’s very good at pretending to be way less experienced than he really is.

“No problem, Jason, but it looks like we’re going to have to work on your stance a little, and your cue-handling. Watch me hit a couple.” Sam watches like his life depends on it, though he’s really looking at Dean, not so much the table. When he hand the cue back to Sam, he shows Sam how to stand. “Little lower – it’d be easier if you weren’t so freakin’ tall, legs a little more apart-” he uses his hands to push and pull Sam’s limbs into place, and Sam goes with it, not really having to fake the catch in his breath as Dean’s hand grazes his inner thigh. “Go for the nine-ball, corner pocket – yeah, just like that.” Sam takes the shot, holding onto the cue just a little too tight, so the ball is jerky and tentative, but goes in.

“Good boy!” Dean says, smiling. “You’re gonna get the hang of this in no time. I think you could use a little work on your grip, though. Don’t choke up on it so much – let it breathe – that’s it, nice and easy.”

He’s got Sam pressed between him and the edge of the table, one hand on Sam’s back, the other wrapped around so he can position Sam’s hands on the cue. He’s moving Sam’s wrist now, in a loose back-and-forth, showing him how it’s done. Sam settles his stance a little lower, wriggling his ass back against Dean’s crotch. Dean’s half-hard already, the length pressing against Sam’s denim-clad ass.

“Like this?” He bends a little lower, looks back over his shoulder at Dean. He has the shot lined up perfectly, it should be a textbook sink. He deliberately hits it wild.

“Jason!” Dean says, smacking his ass. “I don’t think you’re paying attention here. C’mon, kid, get it together!”

“Sorry, Dave. I was, uh, a little distracted.” He glances down at the bulge in Dean’s crotch, back up at Dean. Dean grins, wide and feral, and Sam suddenly wants to be done with this whole charade, wants to be back in their room with its king-size bed right the fuck now. But Dean has other ideas. “Got to finish what you start, Jason,” he whispers.

Sam was right about the quality of Dean’s attention, the focused intensity he brings to games of pool really does translate into his sex life.

Sam will never get enough of being the object of that focus.

They finish out the game somehow, though by the end they’re practically making out on the table. Sam has a flash of Dean fucking him right there, bending him over the edge of the pool table in front of all these upstanding residents of twee Hartford. He whispers this fantasy to Dean, who goes deep red and hustles him out of there, throwing bills at the waitress. Old Guy has been joined in his booth by another man, maybe ten years younger. Sam’s not quite sure how he knows this, but he thinks they’ve been together a long time. They’re watching the whole proceeding with knowing smiles, and Sam wonders if they’ve ever fucked on this pool table. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that they had, or if not this, some other one.

Sam barely has time to grab his laptop bag before Dean’s dragging him out the back door into the alley, throwing him up against the wall and kissing him, all teeth and tongue and heaving breaths. This seems like a great idea to Sam, but he could improve on it. He grabs Dean and flips them, so Dean’s up against the wall and Sam’s holding his head, shoving his tongue down Dean’s throat. Dean kisses him back for a moment, deeply, frantically, and then he growls, honestly growls, and flips them again, shoving Sam against the wall.

“Stay!” he says, and Sam does. This is going exactly how he wanted it to.

Even more so when Dean drops to his knees in front of him, yanking at his belt-buckle like it’s personally responsible for the evils of the world. “Show you how to handle a god-damn stick” is what he seems to be muttering. Sam starts to laugh, but he’s cut off by the fact that Dean has yanked his dick from the open fly of his jeans, and is sliding the tip into his mouth. Sam’s head thunks back against the brick wall of the bar. He settles his hands on Dean’s head, trying to get a grip on his brother’s too-short hair.

Dean is sucking him like he’s drowning and Sam’s dick is his last source of oxygen, and Sam knows there’s no way he’s going to last long. He tugs at Dean’s head in warning, and then he’s coming in great pulses down Dean’s throat and it’s just about the most amazing feeling in the world.

“Holy shit, Dean, what you do to me, God,” Sam’s babbling, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

Dean’s focus doesn’t let up for a moment. He’s on his feet, gripping hand around Sam’s head so he can kiss him with his mouth still tasting of Sam’s come. Then he’s tucking Sam back into his pants, and Sam tries to reach for him, but he’s not having it.

“Room. Now.” He orders, voice scraped raw from the blowjob, and Sam thinks he’s never heard anything sexier. Somehow they stumble the block and a half back to the hotel, slipping in a side door and up the stairs to their room. They’re barely in the door before Dean’s on him again, kissing him dizzy, and Sam’s already getting hard again.

“Strip, Jason.” He orders. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Sam does.

Dean kisses him again, running his hand all over Sam, muttering about how fuckin’ hot he is, do you know what you do to me, little brother. Sam grins down at him, slow and lazy. Dean spins him, shoves him against the wall, arranging his limbs as he wants them. When he get Sam positioned as he likes, hands flat against the wall, legs apart and bent a little to get him at the right height, he smacks Sam’s ass just a little. “Stay there!”

Sam looks back over his shoulder. “Like this?” He grins brightly. Dean says, “Yeah, Sammy, just like that.” The pretence is dropped now, it’s just Sam and Dean again, and Sam’s good with that.

Dean digs some lube out of the nightstand and comes back to Sam, running his hands over his ass, slipping a finger up into the crack and reaching the other around to jack Sam’s cock. He opens Sam up with the same intense concentration he brings to a tricky shot, to cleaning his guns, to any important and skillful task.

They don’t do it this way all that often, Sam’s usually the one who “goes all caveman,” in Dean’s words. But when Sam wants this, he wants it, and he is suddenly unbearably happy to have someone like Dean, who knows him like a textbook, like a game of pool, like the back of his own hand.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Sam pleads, aching now for Dean to be even closer. “Just fuck me already!” But Dean won’t be rushed, he gets Sam lined up right where he wants him before he slides home.

He fucks Sam thoroughly and deeply, jerking him off with one hand while he holds Sam around the chest with the other, fingers spread across his heart, until they both come at almost the same moment, Sam’s hands still braced on the wall till he can’t hold himself anymore, and they collapse to the floor in a heap.

**Author's Note:**

> Title with apologies to Leonard Cohen.


End file.
